So may my spirit cast
(Serpent-like) off the past,
And my free soul at last

Have leave to ponder!

And, should'st thou 'scape control,
Ponder on love, sweet Soul,
On joy, the end and goal
Of all endeavour!

But, if earth's pains will rise,
(As damps will seek the skies,)
Then, Night, seal thou mine eyes,
In sleep, for ever!

THE OLD ARM CHAIR.

ELIZA COOK.

I LOVE it, I love it! and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,

I've bedew'd it with tears, I've embalm'd it with sighs. 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;

Not a tie will break, not a link will start;

Would you know the spell ?-a mother sat there !

And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

In childhood's hour I linger'd near

The hallow'd seat with listening ear;

And gentle words that mother would give

To fit me to die, and teach me to live.

She told me that shame would never betide
With Truth for my creed, and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,

As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.

I sat, and watch'd her many a day,

When her eye grew dim, and her locks were grey;
And I almost worshipp'd her when she smiled,
And turn'd from her Bible to bless her child.
Years roll'd on, but the last one sped-
My idol was shatter'd, my earth-star fled !
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in her old arm-chair.

'Tis past, tis past! but I gaze on it now, With quiv'ring breath and throbbing brow: 'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died, And memory flows with lava tide.

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,

Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek;

But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

OH! a dainty plant is the Ivy green,

That creepeth o'er ruins old!

Of right choice food are his meals I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold.

The walls must be crumbled, the stones decay'd, To pleasure his dainty whim;

And the mould'ring dust that years have made, Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,

A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings
And a stanch old heart has he!

How closely he twineth, how tight he clings,
To his friend the huge oak tree!
And slily he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,

And he joyously twines and hugs around
The rich mould of dead men's graves.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole

ages have fled, and their works decay'd, And nations scatter'd been;

But the stout old Ivy shall never fade

From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days,
Shall fatten upon the past:

For the stateliest building man can raise,
Is the Ivy's food at last.

Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

THE WILD CHERRY-TREE.

BARRY CORNWALL.

Oн,-there never was yet so pretty a thing,
By racing river or bubbling spring,

Nothing that ever so merrily grew,

Up from the ground when the skies were blue,

Nothing so fresh-nothing so free

As thou-my wild, wild Cherry-tree!

Jove! how it danced in the gusty breeze!
Jove how it frolicked among the trees!
Dashing the pride of the poplar down,
Stripping the thorn of his hoary crown !
Oak or ash-what matter to thee!

'Twas the same to my wild, wild Cherry-tree !

Never at rest, like a thing that's young,

Abroad to the winds its arms it flung,

Shaking its rich and crownéd head.
Whilst I stole up for its berries red-
Beautiful berries! beautiful tree!
Hurrah, for the wild, wild Cherry-tree!

Back I fly to the days gone by,
And I see thy branches against the sky,
I see on the grass thy blossoms shed,
I see (and I ravish) thy berries red,
And I shout-like the tempest loud and free,
Hurrah, for the wild, wild Cherry-tree!

THE BUD IS ON THE BOUGH.

FRANCIS BENNOCH.

"THE bud is on the bough,

And the blossom on the tree;"

But the bud and the blossom

Bring no joyousness to me.

Wall'd up within the city's gloom,

No pleasure can I know,

But like a cagéd linnet sing
To chase away my woe!

The bud will grow a blossom,

The blossom will grow pale,

And as they die the fruit will spring,
But fall when o'er the vale
Stern winter marches with his train

In every wind that blows,

And I, unripe, with ripest fruit,

May in the dust repose.

But Spring upon the seed will breathe,
The seed become a tree,
And on the tree so beautiful

Shall bud and blossom be;
And shall I know a second Spring?
Yes! brighter far than they;
When age puts on the blush of youth,
And youth shall not decay!

FAIR FLOWER! FAIR FLOWER!

W. T. MONCRIEFF.

FAIR flower! fair flower!

Though thou seem'st so proudly growing,
Though thou seem'st so sweetly blowing,
With all heaven's smiles upon thee,
The blight has fallen on thee,
Every hope of life o'erthrowing,
Fair flower! fair flower!

Dear flower! dear flower!
Vainly we our sighs breathe o'er thee,
No fond breath can e'er restore thee;
Vainly our tears are falling,

Thou 'rt past the dew's recalling;

We shall live but to deplore thee,
Dear flower! dear flower!

Poor flower! poor flower!

No aid now to health can win thee;
The fatal canker is within thee,

Turning thy young heart's gladness
To mourning and to madness!
Soon will the cold tomb enshrine thee,
Poor flower! poor flower!

Wan flower! wan flower!
Oh! how sad to see thee lying,
Meekly-calmly-thus, though dying;
Sweeter, in thy decaying,

Than all behind thee staying!

But vain, alas! is now our sighing,
Lost flower! lost flower!